Sarah Black
Stories
Heracles, Poet and Hero
Heracles nibbled on the end of his stylus. His blank wax tablet stared back at him like the reproachful gaze of a disappointed woman.
"Something yellow." He gazed around the hillside. Tumbled granite boulders, some scrubby gray-green grass, a couple of fat, fluffy sheep staring off into space. He needed something yellow, something pretty and yellow, to compare to his lady's hair. Heracles was writing a poem.
Think, think, think. Daffodils. Sunshine. Butter. No, definitely not butter. He'd used butter before, and the lady had not been pleased. His mind was a yawning, empty cavern, craving words, strong phrases, images, poems so rich and lovely that people would begin to call him Heracles the Poet!
He was dead tired of that same old line over and over: "Man, you got your growin' on! What your mama been feeding you, boy?" Didn't anyone realize he had a brain, a heart, a creative soul? No, they did not. He was just a strong back when a boulder needed shifting. Okay, concentrate. Something yellow.
He fell asleep in the grass, lulled by the smell of honeysuckle and the buzzing of bees and the warmth of an early summer sun. But he woke up quickly enough when Phoebe nudged him in the thigh with her toe.
"Phoebe! I'm glad to see you." He sat up and raked his fingers through his hair, dislodging a twig and a honeybee.
She gave the wax tablet a pointed glance. "Yellow" was the only word printed there.
"Help me, Phoebe. I'm stuck. If I can just get going, get that first image.You know Andromeda? I'm trying to describe her beautiful hair. I think she likes me. If I could only..."
Phoebe stared down into his face. He looked as clueless as usual, maybe more gorgeous than usual, a tiny blue wildflower stuck to his cheek like a beauty mark. She felt her heart twist with longing for what could never be. Well, she would take what she could get, and be happy for it.
"You know, Herc, you always seem to have a surge in creativity with, you know, sex. Maybe we should make love." She met his gaze frankly, her eyes very wide. "I'm always happy to help another poet."
He beamed at her. "You're a damn good sport, Phoebe. But I bet they sent you up here to fetch me. What's wrong now? Another wild boar threatening the island?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what this is all about, but he wants you to clean out the stables."
"The stables?" Heracles shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Whatever." He reached for her pretty ankle, slid the linen robe up her leg until he could pull her back into his lap. "Poetry first, though. You're a nice girl, Phoebe," he said, nuzzling the hair on the back of her neck. It was dark and damp and smelled like lavender. She was as tiny as a doll, and his big hands spanned her waist. He bent her forward and moved her draperies aside, pushed slowly into her. He had learned early that women tended to tighten up if they got a good look at his enormous tool. Phoebe was cool, though. She was okay with it. Well, she was a poet. She understood what moved him.
He could feel himself start to relax, start to get into the rhythm, his soul entering some river of something, some calm river, what was the word he was looking for? Something flowing between them. He couldn't think of what to call it, this place, but it was where he did his best work.
Phoebe was as cute as a bug. That's what he thought about her every time, even when he couldn't think up another decent metaphor to save his life. "Help me, Phoebe. Something yellow like her hair." His hands tightened around her waist, his powerful thrusts lifting her to her toes.
"Gold, not yellow," she gasped. "Gold and silver. Honey and moonlight."
"Oh, Zeus, that's good! Wait, let me write that down."
"No! Don't stop. I'll remember it, Herc."
She glanced back over her shoulder. His hair was like honey and moonlight on her tongue, eyes as blue as the sea when the sun was shining through it, and he smiled at her, really seeing her, and pulled her close against his chest. She closed her eyes, and just for a moment tasted bittersweet and salt on his skin.